When You Wake
by Naisumi
Summary: When life in the fast lane slows down...exactly what is wrong with Pietro? [Lance/Pietro; SLASH]
1. Prologue

Title: When You Wake: Prologue  
Author: Naisumi  
Rating: PG (for this part)  
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance  
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~  
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?   
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all.  
  
Notes: Okayyy...you guys get to read the fic that I was _going_ to write instead of Pietrance ^-^;; Please tell me if this is okay...Shindo seems to think it's good, so uh...right. Thanks Shindo!!!! *wavewavewave* And thanks to Michiko, too! ^__^ She's a really great betareader and caught some pretty embarrassing mistakes o.o  
  
Enjoy and PLEASE give me C&C!!  
  
"blah." People speak  
blah. Mental speak  
-- uh...scene switch  
  
--  
  
Silence...A never-ending tomb that echoes persistently of memories long forgotten. Silence...the same silence that tugs at thoughts, stray musings, and twists them to a demented paranoia that raps insistently at consciousness. Silence...  
  
--  
  
Pietro looked up, smiling slightly into the sunlight. The warmth was exuberating as the sunrays played on the paleness of his skin and radiated a soft touch of serenity into his very soul. For the time being, he basked in the moment, feeling settled and oddly not disturbed by how time seemed to slow down. He usually liked the fast lane a lot better.  
"Hey, you're actually up?"  
"Shut up," The boy returned good-naturedly, eyes still trained on the windowpane, the cracked glass muting the soft daylight outside. Todd shrugged and turned to the rusted toaster, shoving two pop tarts down into the gaping slots.   
  
"It's surprising," the impish youth said, "'cause you don't even have to get up early, yo. So what gives?" He peered suspiciously at the silver-haired teen beside him.  
  
Pietro glanced witheringly at him before returning his attention to the sun-drenched outside, "It's nothing. I just felt like getting up...that so hard to comprehend?"  
  
A shrug was his answer before silence once more seeped into the kitchen. The soft clang of the pop tarts springing up sliced through the air like a heated knife. Todd clambered over to them, grabbing one before snatching his hand away; "Damn! It's still hot--" He glowered at it before getting a plate from one of the cupboards, gingerly seizing both pop tarts and slapping them down, walking over to the dining table.  
  
"I'm skipping," Pietro said abruptly, and his companion turned to him, looking bewildered.  
"What?"  
"I'm skipping," He repeated, a strangely beatific expression on his countenance.  
"Hey, no way...I'm not gonna catch the heat if _you_'re the one skipping!" Todd shook his head, his shaggy hair sweeping along his hunched shoulders as he crouched, nibbling at his breakfast. "If you wanna skip, then _you_ tell Lance, 'kay?"  
  
Pietro shrugged, no emotions flickering in his eyes, his voice vague.   
  
"It doesn't matter anymore."  
  
--  
  
He walked to school that day. He never walked to school. Lance pulled up beside the silver-haired boy, noting his calm gait, his smooth expression, his empty eyes.  
"Pietro?"  
  
The slender boy turned, steel-blue gaze flickering with a brief internal light, "Hey."  
  
Lance smiled, leaning his chin on the one arm that lay on the top of the side door. "Hope on in. If you're not going to get to school ridiculously early, you might as well ride with the rest of us."  
  
So he did. He sat, willowy figure slumped slightly, pixie-like face turned towards the sunlight-frosted window. Vaguely, Pietro heard Todd call a distant "yo" before turning the volume of his CD player up higher. It had been a birthday present, he recalled. He remembered no other birthday presents. Not for him.  
  
The dark-haired boy beside Pietro was glancing at him. He could see out of the corner of his eye...could see the worried glint reflected in the mahogany eyes, spirited out of hiding by the gleaming sunrays. The worry was almost customary nowadays, for the pale youth had seen it often writ on his comrade's countenance, so usually impassive.   
  
Masks, Pietro thought, a glimmer of amusement slipping through his mind before souring, a strand of bitter irony in its place,  
They think that is all we are...evil, antagonistic, rebellious. How I'd like to show them...tell them _all_ what really goes on.  
  
Pietro turned his azure eyes to the blurred landscape outside. He pondered this--pondered the brilliant hues of nature, running together like watercolor. The panorama remained smeared...blurred, as if the jeep that he--they--were in was topping the speed limit, edging closer and closer to match the pace of surging light. Blurred because of too many thoughts, too many emotions. Blurred because of the nonsensical parody that life had become. Blurred because of crystallized sadness, filming his gaze, like sepia-tinted lenses, snapping over the back of his mind.  
  
There was a trembling moment, taut with barely suppressed panic; No...Nono, I can't cry...I can't cry now!! Not in front of them...boys don't cry. Boysdon'tcryboysdon'tcry-- Pietro tensed, closing his too-bright eyes against the suddenly oppressive luster of the gleaming sun. Concentrate...on touch, He told himself, schooled himself. On sensation.  
  
The quietness of the morning was permeated by the rumbling growl of the jeep's engine. Every so often, Pietro would catch a strain of Todd's music, and accompanied with that, was the soft absent humming of the chocolate-haired boy beside him. His voice is nice, the speedster thought, deep...almost warm. Warmth...Pietro fingered the sun-warmed seat covering, rubbing the ridged texture between thumb and forefinger. The artificial leather was almost soft, a little worn around the edges; almost velvety. It reminded him of the supple silkiness of a cat's fur, and was from then on immersed in the memory of a neighbor's kitten. He had been five.  
  
"Do you think we could get a cat?"  
  
If Lance was startled by how random his comment had been, the older boy didn't show it.  
  
"Why do you want to get a cat?" Idly, he tapped his fingers to some beat only heard by his ears. Pietro watched the material of the driving wheel dent slightly, then smooth as Lance's fingers played over it. His hands were nice; long-fingered, not too angular and knobby--almost elegant.  
  
"My neighbor used to have a cat."  
  
Pietro stared at his hands, folded limply in his lap. Abruptly, he felt stupid--childish for bringing up such a petty subject. Just as suddenly, he wanted to stop, to change the topic.  
  
"Cats are nice," Lance nodded easily, his gaze flickered from the road to him briefly.   
  
"It was an A-Abyssinian," for once, Pietro seemed to stumble over his words, as if his tongue was not sure it wished to speak. He mentally chided himself before the same haze of numbness swathed his mind again. "I really liked it."  
  
"Oh, really?" The ambiguous response was enthusiastic enough to convince the slender teen to continue and mild enough to project curiosity. The words tumbled out, his tongue freed from its hesitance.   
  
"I used to feed it, because they wouldn't. It liked tuna...and salmon, too. I think it liked me...really liked me, I mean. It used to meow, and purr a lot. The fur was so soft...plush, almost. It was so soft that you could barely feel it; you'd feel this cool velvet-like feeling under your fingers, but that was all." Pietro paused, feeling his cheeks warm, and returned his gaze to outside the window, watching the gray smudge that was the road.  
  
The silence draped itself about the car once more, the faint hum that was the engine fading into the background. Todd bobbed his head to the rhythm of the music, absorbed in the tales of understanding and comforted pain that his headphones sang; listening avidly to the tender words of tiny voices within the smooth disc, within the chords of the enveloping music.  
  
"What happened to it?" The traffic light flashed rusty yellow, then red.  
  
Pietro watched the light, a stillness seeming to spread to his limbs from the core of his mind, the single eye of the storm that hung suspended in the midst of his chaotic thoughts. He didn't want to move, didn't have the energy to talk. I'm tired, the coolness of the windowpane felt refreshing against his forehead.   
  
The light swayed as a particularly strong gust of wind swept by, and Lance revved the engine as it flashed green.  
  
Cerulean eyes watched the brilliant viridian as it passed overhead in a neon blur, and whispered into the emptiness,  
  
"They killed it."   
  
  
  
tbc  



	2. Spring

Title: When You Wake~ Chapter 1: Spring  
Author: Naisumi  
Rating: PG-13 (for this part)  
Part: 1/4  
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance  
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~  
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?   
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all.  
  
Notes: I know the parts are a little short...it's supposed to be that way. .O; eh...I'll explain it on the last part. I'm thinking that there'll probably be four chapters. Thanks be to Michiko for being a great betareader!  
  
Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!!  
  
  
"blah." People speak  
blah. Mental speak  
-- uh...scene switch  
  
  
  
--  
  
  
"Hey, yo, Freddy!" Pietro watched Todd execute a small hop-walk combo as he approached the larger teen with a grin and mini-wave. His eyes watered.  
  
"Where were you this morning?" he made himself ask, pitching his voice higher; coloring the question with good-natured teasing. In response, Fred made a face and said distastefully, "Detention."  
  
"Yep," Lance leaned against the lockers, "He's got three of them this week."  
  
Pietro rolled his eyes and smiled as snidely as he could, even as his throat constricted painfully. "Three? What, did he break the gym benches again?"   
  
The dark-haired boy shrugged, a graceful almost rolling motion of his shoulders. He knows what Fred did, Pietro thought, but he's not going to make a big deal about it. Good for him, a small voice at the back of his head whispered, it means he wouldn't tell anyone _your_ secret if you told him.   
  
Pietro blinked a few times, whether to clear his vision or to clear his thoughts, he wasn't sure.   
  
"Hey, better get to class," he said, his voice airy. Todd tossed a concerned glance at him, remembrance of the morning's conversation obviously running their course, weaving a tapestry of worry amongst his thoughts. His pale green eyes watched him warily, saying, "You never skip. What's wrong?"  
  
Pietro smiled at him, ignoring the burning sensation in his chest, ignoring the heat of Lance's gaze at the nape of his neck. He wanted to turn around and tell the older boy everything. Instead, he turned to him, his smile widening, and breathed, "See you later."  
  
--  
  
He fancied himself a painter. An artist. Instead of working with watercolors, pastels, oils, he colored with the larger spectrum of emotion. He painted his smile cheerful, prideful, cold. He dabbled his eyes with the hues of aloofness, teasing, distaste. He tinged his voice with the undertones of joking, of cheerful vivacity, of youthful exuberance.  
  
He felt none of those.  
  
Pietro watched the water ripple in the spring light. The sun seemed pale, casting a wan yellow tinge on everything, even the clearness of the water. It seemed artificial. It felt artificial.  
  
The pond was a few miles away from school, secluded enough so that no one would be able to see it from even fifty feet away. It was peaceful, serene--the cool water and whispering budding trees offering what comfort that human assurance couldn't give.  
  
But what of human touch? He wondered, what of needing someone to hold you, to offer you their strength?  
  
It had never been like that for him. Pietro remembered it well. The freezing cold of lonely nights, not ice borne of air, but ice borne of bitter words, emotions, thoughts. Always, he offered what he could of himself; his comfort, love--his body. Always, he received none of that back. And what of his life now? Where was it going?   
  
Unrequited love, he thought grimly, It's such a waste. My life was already traveling at twice the speed of others...now I have this to worry about. _This_ on top of everything...   
  
Pietro closed his eyes, shielded the crystal blue of them from the suddenly harshness of unforgiving sunlight.   
  
I can't handle this, He wrapped his arms about himself, almost startled at the thinness of them, It's too much. Maybe I should just tell him...tell him before it's too late.  
  
His vision was smeared when he opened his eyes, "Maybe I should tell him," Pietro whispered to the newly blossoming trees, the still water, "Maybe I should tell him before I run out of time."  
  
--  
  
Todd closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the seat. The music whispered sweet nothings to him, whispered the truths about lies, and the reality of why people pushed him away.   
  
"What're you listening to?"   
  
Lance's voice, the small teen recognized. He opened his eyes.  
  
"Staind," Todd watched the oldest mutant climb in the back of the jeep, sitting beside him. Something was wrong.  
"Do you know where Pietro went?"  
  
The sandy-haired youth cringed and asked in return, "Didn't he show up to lunch?" Todd had missed that particular "class" because of being at the media center, courtesy of his _wonderful_ teacher, Ms. Ferguson.   
  
Damn her, he thought absently before turning to stare at Lance when he answered, "No."  
  
Short and sweet. Todd yanked off his headphones, leaving the CD still whirring. He could hear the faint strains of Staind's "A Flat," but at the moment, he didn't care.   
  
"He said he was going to skip, yo." he told Lance, feeling apprehensive when he saw the older boy's jaw tighten, and hastened to inquire anxiously, "Pietro would've at least showed up to lunch, though, right?"  
  
Lance sighed gustily, carding one hand through his hair and glaring at the windshield up front for no particular reason. Todd could feel his earlier feeling of peacefulness slip away, and wanted desperately to snatch it back for fear of it vanishing forever. Part of him wanted to put his headphones back on, but the more rational part told him sternly that Pietro was in trouble. He was startled out of his thoughts when Lance opened the side door forcefully and exited, making a determined beeline for the school.  
  
"Lance??"  
"I'm going to the clinic."  
  
--  
  
Pietro absently stared at the ceiling, not really seeing the cracked white plaster. The nurse was lecturing him about being careful and how he should've "taken a friend" with him.   
  
Bullshit, he thought, suddenly feeling oppressed by the mind-numbing chatter.   
  
"Okay." Pietro snapped curtly, not caring that he had just interrupted the nurse's spiel. She bristled and shot him a dirty look before walking away in a huff.  
  
Lance was going to be pissed. The silver-haired boy lay back on the uncomfortable futon again, idly watching a girl and her friend babble away on the bed next to him.   
  
He had been in the clinic a lot lately, Pietro realized, not really giving the thought much weight. With all the passing out and the falling...  
  
It doesn't matter anymore, He reminded himself, feeling dizzy and nauseous.   
  
"Hey!"   
  
Pietro sat up slightly at the sound of the voice, then all the way, and smiled as best as he could.  
  
"Hi, Lance."  
The older boy sighed and flopped down in the chair besides the bed. Pietro swung his legs to the side and winced as he caught the intense gaze, currently full of anger, concern, and demanding. He could read the unspoken demand, 'Why are you in here again? What happened this time?' Pietro didn't bother to answer any of them. Instead, he waited silently for any questions that Lance might be willing to voice aloud.   
  
"So. Why the hell did you feel that you had to skip?"  
  
The sense of foreboding increased.  
"I just...I needed to."  
"Why?"  
  
Pietro drew in a sharp breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly.   
"I had to think about some things."  
  
The dark gaze was still trained on him, he knew. The anger was probably seeping away, giving in to concern.   
  
"Think about what?"  
  
He shook his head, oddly not feeling irritated when a strand of his hair swept onto his face. It felt feathery, ethereal. He wondered if he was even physically there.   
  
"I can't say," Pietro whispered, almost apologetically. Lance frowned slightly and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  
  
"Your teachers think you're doing drugs," Lance said after a while. Pietro stared at him, uncomprehending.  
  
A small grin tugged at the older boy's lips, "I think they're out of their fucking minds."  
  
For some reason, that made the cerulean-eyed boy smile madly, to want to embrace the mahogany-haired boy before him, to kiss the crazed countenance that seemed so solid, so _there_--the only real thing in an unreal world. Pietro smiled, maybe the first genuine smile in days.  
  
"Nah...just a little paranoid." He paused than asked tentatively,  
  
"You know that...that I'm not stupid enough to do that shit, right?"  
  
Lance half-shrugged, a teasing smile lurking in his translucent topaz brown eyes. "What do you think?"  
  
Pietro frowned for a moment.  
"I think...I think you trust me too much."  
"Any reason I shouldn't?"  
  
The snowy-haired teen felt his heart break as he lied through his teeth,   
  
"No."  
  
  
  
tbc  
  
  



	3. Summer

Title: When You Wake~ Chapter 2: Summer  
Author: Naisumi  
Rating: PG-13 (for this part)  
Part: 2/4  
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance  
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~  
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?   
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all.  
  
Notes: This fic is addicting to write! Anyways, I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am...also, except for Shindo and Morwen, who know what I have planned, this part is a bit misleading. I'm not going to elaborate. ^.~ Thanks to Michiko for being the best-est betareader!  
  
Anyway, enjoy and pleeeeaaaase give me C&C!!!   
  
  
"blah." People speak  
blah. Mental speak  
-- uh...scene switch  
  
  
  
--  
  
  
"You collapsed today."  
  
Pietro fiddled absently with the sleeve of his button-down. It had been a week since he had decided that he was going to tell him. He hadn't.  
  
"Yeah, I know."  
  
Lance frowned darkly at him. The silver-haired boy could tell that he was on his last reserves of patience. His chest hurt.   
  
"Lance...it's nothing, okay? I just got disoriented. You know how that is."  
  
The older boy shook his head, standing abruptly and pacing angrily. His jaw was set, lips firm in a stern line, dark eyes flashing with barely suppressed anger.  
  
"It's _not_ okay," He murmured, his voice low and deadly. Lance turned to him, twin orbs of blazing sienna half-pleading, half-demanding, "What the hell is going on?!"  
  
Pietro heaved a soft sigh. He wanted to respond with some witty quip, but couldn't bring himself to do so. The reoccurring weariness that had been swathing his mind and body all the prior week was back; he felt so terribly exhausted, as if his very energy was seeping out of him, like water through a sieve.   
  
"I'm tired," he said quietly, hoping to calm his friend. Lance whipped around to stare at him, his gaze almost panicky, yet also weary. Then, after what seemed to be ages, he closed his eyes, lifting one hand to rub his temple resignedly,  
  
"Okay...we'll talk later."  
  
The azure-eyed boy didn't reply, just stood from the worn old couch with an almost demure air and left. Lance was dumbfounded. Lately, there had been no snappy comebacks, no head-spinning conversations, no speed. Something was horribly wrong, and he needed to find out what...if only to reassure himself that there was nothing at hand.   
  
--  
  
The complete stillness of the night seemed to hold him, to reach out with invisible manacles, to clamp him down onto the bed like the restraining jaws of a great serpent. It was the deliverer from pain, yet also the entrance of nightmares. Nightmares of death, dreamscapes ravaged by the pawing claws of demons unknown, thoughts filled with nonsensical whispers, and gentle lullabies turned bloody with images of massacre.   
  
He could still feel the heat, feel the insistent burn of the greedy flames. The warmth had been too much to bear; it had not been the nurturing fire that had cooked food to a perfection, nor the familiar crackling flames that warmed the body in the depths of winter. No, it had been a great destroyer, a reaper of souls, lives, bodies. It had been a massive scorching tide, surging against the helpless land. It had been a demonic being, cackling in the form of sparks, taunting in the shape of glowing flares, and killing in the onslaught of burning, flaming fire. Before, he remembered beaming happily at the calm, crackling blaze, relishing in the gentle warmth, so like the loving rays of the sun. Now, he cringed away, screamed hysterically in the back of his mind, feared that the flames would devour him like they did his family. His friends. His life.  
  
The fire was there again, Pietro thought, huddled forlornly against his bed. But this time, it was no longer external. The fire, the _burning_, had stolen into his body and captured his soul. He was aflame, being burnt from the inside out. His life was smoldering, turning to ash in front of his very eyes--and yet nothing could be done to quench the everlasting thirst for life that the blazing mass had.  
  
Pietro clutched at his chest, fingers digging deep into cool flesh and soft cloth. It hurt to breathe, for breathing brought pain...Pinpricks of white-hot flame that spread through his body, much like the numbness that seemed ever-present in his mind. He stilled himself, on hands and knees, and breathed shallowly for what seemed to be minutes, hours, days into infinity. The pain subsided to a dull ache, and his movement was no longer as hindered. Pietro smiled wanly and cautiously crawled over to his nightstand, withdrawing a needle and bottle of pale liquid. He stared at it for a moment, wishing he didn't need it--and likewise, wishing that he didn't want it. It occurred to him that he could just throw it away, destroy the evidence, and be rid of the problem...but instead, he inserted the needle neatly into one vein, and injected the liquid into himself. It burned.   
  
Before the whole incident, Pietro thought there had been only two kinds of burning. The warming blaze that kept one warm on cold, lonely nights. And the scorching fire that killed, maimed, and decimated. Now, he was aware of a third type; a cleansing fire. An enveloping burning that coursed through his body and stalled the pain, tamed the aching. His breath came a little easier, and he lay down, the liquid fire surging through his veins.   
  
With the image of crackling flames in mind, he closed his eyes. That night, Pietro slept and dreamt of the sun. He saw himself in his mind's eye as a firefly, no longer lit as gloriously as the others. Instead, he was burnt out, his soul threatening to crumble under the pressure of living, of pretending. He borrowed the sun's flame, touched it to himself, and felt the thrashing hurt of setting oneself on fire. His life was almost extinguished, and even then, he spiraled closer and closer to the sun, hoping to rekindle the internal flame, not the internal fire.   
  
Later, Pietro woke, and looked to the wall. The pendulum swung, slow and steady. The bold-faced clock read 3:55, and it was morning. The silver-haired boy lay himself down once more, covering his eyes with his arm, whether to protect any peering eyes from seeing, or to desperately shield himself from the inescapable reality.   
  
That morning, and the many nights before and after, he cried himself back to sleep. And in sleep, the many screams of the long-past dead echoed in his ears, and the yearned-for serenity of the beckoning grave called to him with a siren's voice.   
  
--  
  
"Pietro, you're up pretty early, yo."  
  
Todd moved lethargically about the kitchen, headphones around his neck, the rhythmic rock beat sounding faint in the quiet of the morning.  
  
"You plannin' on skippin' again?"  
  
Pietro shook his head, crossing his legs at the ankles and hooking them on crossbar of the chair's legs. He rested his clasped hands on the dining table and stared out the window, feeling calmed by the ethereal sunlight playing upon the world. The earth had a golden cast about it, almost as if it had been reborn overnight into a new age, one without the sorrows and troubles witnessed by the aged world of today. Pietro glanced up, meeting Todd's gaze, and could see the youth was concerned even though he tried not to look it.  
  
"Nah, I'm not gonna skip." He smiled dryly, "English class is _so_ much more interesting, y'know?"  
  
He earned a grin in response, "I know what you mean, yo. Our class is such a drag...Man, who cares about some screwed up book about the future?"  
  
Pietro blinked and glanced over at him,   
  
"The future? What are you guys reading?"   
"Fahrenheit 451," Todd snatched a strawberry pop tart from the toaster,  
"You ever have to read it? It's _so_ boring!"  
  
The azure-eyed boy shrugged,   
"I never paid that much attention in English. What's it about?"  
  
Todd quirked an eyebrow and drawled,   
"Burning. As much as I appreciate the subject, it's still as boring as hell, yo."  
  
Then, he hopped away, evidently growing tired of the subject. Pietro couldn't move. Burning, he thought, It's about burning.   
  
The memories surged a little at the word, as if it had some spell that summoned them. The ashen-haired teen shook his head, as if to clear it, and just stared down at his hands, not really startled when he saw they were bone-white and trembling.  
  
Before he could completely destroy his somewhat stable mentality of the moment with reminiscing, he heard quick footsteps.  
  
"Pietro?"  
  
Pietro turned, and looked dumbly at Lance, still not quite recovering from the shock his own mind gave itself. The older boy stared at him, as if not sure what to make of his expression, then gave himself a mental shake. Lance jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and inquired concernedly,  
  
"You riding with us today? Or are you gonna run?"  
  
The moment hung suspended in the golden sunlight. After what seemed to be centuries, Pietro stood up slowly, as if frightened that the chair would skid on the tile floor; as if he was afraid his spine would break from too much pressure.   
  
Later, he would go to the library, and would read the book slowly. Later, he would cry about the fire; cry for the man that had lost his life to it; cry for himself. (1)  
  
But now, he murmured quietly,  
  
"I'll go with you."  
  
--  
  
Lance was shocked. The documents he held in his quivering hands explained everything--the collapses, the paleness, the loss of appetite, among other things, and the slowness. The warning signs. He dropped the papers, ignoring them as they scattered across the counter, and cradled his head in the palms of both hands. It seemed surreal, as if written down in word, it was just a story; some fictional tale that an author skillfully weaved to fool someone with its professionalism. It was no joke.   
  
The stamp at the top right corner was cherry red, deceivingly bright and cheery. It read 'Bayville Central Hospital.' The last word struck him with quiet forcefulness, as if someone had fired a silencer into the side of his head and was watching, fascinated, as the crimson blood dribbled in rivulets down his skin.   
  
'Hospital.'  
  
In all his life, the word 'hospital' was never about getting better. Everyone who went there never came out. Hospitals weren't about getting better--they were about attempting to help and failing. It made no sense that Pietro had these documents. It made no sense that they were mailed to him as first-class priority. It made no sense that it listed all the 'problems' that he had. It made no sense.  
  
"Lance?"  
  
Lance looked up, startled wide dark eyes meeting calm filmy blue ones.   
  
"Lance...I'm sorry."  
  
  
tbc  
  
  
(1) Fahrenheit 451 is a science fiction book by Ray Bradbury about a futuristic society where no books are allowed; they must be burned. That's not the significance to Pietro, though. The book's underlying theme is rebirth by fire, and hope in the future. Pietro feels hopeless without a future, and hates the fire yet needs it and wants it. More on this later...^.~ After you read all four parts, you can e-mail me if you want to clear up anything. I have a lot of hidden meanings and stuff.  
  



	4. Autumn

Title: When You Wake~ Chapter 3: Autumn   
Author: Naisumi  
Rating: PG-13 (for this part)  
Part: 3/4  
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance  
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~  
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?   
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all.  
  
Notes: Scottie and Kurt are in this part! Yippee! Not as a couple, though O.o;;; Anyways, if you read the next part, you'll grow to hate Dr. Brandenbury as much as I do. I was actually going to make him say some other stuff in part 3, but then I'd have an impulsive urge to kill him off. Hm...Lance being a pain in the ass is pretty much enough punishment for the dude, anyway. Anyway, thanks Michiko, for being such a wonderfluous (tm, tm) betareader!!! ^__^  
  
Well, enjoy, and please give C&C!!   
  
  
"blah." People speak  
blah. Mental speak  
-- uh...scene switch  
  
--  
  
Pietro felt dizzy, disoriented. He leaned against the lockers, pressing his feverish forehead to the cold metal. It made him feel better, but it was inevitable that his knees were going to give way.  
  
"Hey, what are you doing?!" Distantly, he heard someone yelp defensively. That X-geek, he identified, Summers. They always think the worst of us.  
  
There was a pause, then a tentative hand lighted briefly on his shoulder.   
  
"You okay?" Concern was evident in the voice that had previously been laced with surprise and slight anger.   
  
I'm fine, Pietro thought, wanting to snap at the bespectacled boy, but his voice refused to work with his thoughts. His body had turned traitor and wouldn't allow him to shy away from the helping hands. I don't _want_ your help, He screamed mentally, but instead of pulling away, he shivered and leaned against the offered shoulder.  
  
He felt tired, so tired...and the warmth of human touch was comforting, he wanted to fall into it forever. Pietro's eyes shuttered closed and he was no longer aware of sensation. For that moment, all he knew, was falling.  
  
"Hey--hey! We need to get him to the clinic--fast!"   
  
--  
  
Scott carded a hand through his hair, anxiously peering into the clinic. He could see the slender boy laying limply on one of the beds---if they could be called that--and there was no sign of movement. The nurse gave him a sympathetic look,  
  
"So you're the one who got him here this time?"  
  
This time? Scott was incredulous. If he had been to the clinic prior to the current situation, then that meant...  
  
"Hey, do you know what's wrong with him?"  
  
The nurse shrugged, "Your guess is as good as mine." She squinted at him, "Why are you so concerned? I've never seen you here with him before. Usually it's that dark-haired punk...Alvers, or something like that. If you guys are friends, then how come you haven't ever been here?"  
  
Scott flushed slightly, "Um, well...we're not exactly friends."  
  
The woman nodded and smiled pleasantly, "Anyway, I'm sure Mr. Maximoff will be fine." She paused, then turned to one of the secretaries, holding a quick murmured conversation before returning her attention to the fidgeting teen,  
  
"I'm having them send for that other boy. You can go now, if you'd like. It's already been 10 minutes into class."  
  
Scott nodded slowly, reluctantly, and glanced over his shoulder at the prone form with concern. After a while, he nodded again, this time resignedly,   
  
"Okay. Thanks for all your help," he added out of politeness, and headed for class. For some reason or other, he couldn't shake the ominous feeling that he had of the situation...  
  
--  
  
Lance gripped the wheel tightly, glaring at the bustle of traffic at the intersection. "C'mon, _c'mon_," He muttered impatiently under his breath before glancing anxiously at Pietro's huddled form in the seat next to him.  
  
He reached over and clapped a hand on the younger boy's shoulder, "Hey, it's going to be okay..."  
  
Pietro drew in a shuddering breath and stirred, straightening slightly. He glanced over at his concerned comrade and smiled weakly,  
  
"Yeah..." There was no faith behind his words, for they rang hollow. Lance cringed and watched the normally expressive eyes for a moment before turning his attention to the road once more. One driver was kind enough to let him go, and he gratefully took a left turn.  
  
When they reached the hospital, Pietro fell behind Lance's cautious stride when normally he could energetically keep up. The mahogany-haired boy attributed it to apprehension and the slender boy's ailing condition.  
  
In an uncommonly compassionate gesture, he reached for Pietro's hand, and was startled when the slender fingers readily clasped his. Lance approached the reception desk, and after exchanging a few words with the secretary, headed down the sterile hallways once more.  
  
"I hate it here," Pietro confessed quietly, his voice soft and flat, as if he were afraid the walls would leap at him and tear him to pieces.  
  
"Yeah, me, too," Lance murmured, glancing about in the manner of one whom was anticipating attack. His expression darkened.  
  
"Here's the room."   
  
Pietro nodded, acknowledging the taut sentence. Of mutual consent, their hands fell limply to their respective sides. An orderly glanced up at their entrance, smiling detachedly,  
  
"Hello. Dr. Brandenbury will be with you in a moment. You may take a seat and wait for him to come in."  
  
She left, and both boys sat warily. Pietro automatically turned to gaze out the window, hoping the beauty of nature could help him cope with the situation. Lance scowled at the floor.  
  
After a moment, Pietro turned, whispering softly, "Lance?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
"Can I tell you something?"  
"What is it?"  
  
The slender boy worried his lower lip with pearly teeth,  
  
"Promise not to hate me?"  
  
Lance eyed him, as if silently measuring whether or not that would be a daunting task.  
  
"Sure."  
Pietro frowned and insisted, "Promise."  
  
The dark-haired boy was reflectively quiet for a few seconds, then he nodded,   
"I promise."  
  
Pietro bowed his head, nervously twiddling his thumbs.  
  
"Lance...this friendship we have..."  
  
Lance stiffened, staring incredulously at the willowy boy before him,  
  
"It's not enough."  
  
The silence was deafening. Pietro closed his eyes, trying to ignore the burning sensation behind his eyelids. He hates me, he mourned, feeling desperation stab through him just as easily as the needle jabbed into his vein so many countless times. Just as easily as his life smoldered and vanished under volleys of endless rain, rain made of burning charcoal and blazing flames.   
  
Then, quietly, he heard Lance ask tersely,  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
Pietro opened his eyes slowly, and counted the tiles on the floor.  
  
"I do. I've thought about it enough to know."  
  
The silence settled about them again. A child walked by outside the closed door, her joyful chatter coming and passing abruptly with her mother's hastened pace. Pietro lifted his steel-blue eyes to stare at the door, hoping that it would open and end the miserable conversation. Then, he felt a warmth on one of his hands. He glanced to it, and saw Lance's fingers, intertwined with his. His breath hitched.  
  
"What if I told you," Lance murmured almost conversationally,  
"that it really _wasn't_ enough?"  
  
Pietro turned to look at him, eyes wide, bright, hopeful.  
  
"I'd tell you that I thought you were joking."  
"What if I told you that I wasn't?"  
  
A smile tugged at his lips, and the slender boy quivered, watching Lance's face searchingly,  
  
"I'd want you to tell me what you were saying."  
  
Lance grinned slowly and leaned closer, whispering into Pietro's ear,  
  
"Then I'd tell you that what I'm saying...is that we've lost so much time already."  
  
The warm wetness of tears threatened to course down pale cheeks once more, but Pietro held them in check, just as he held his breath, waiting for the next words that he hoped would make everything all right, even for just a little bit.  
  
"I would tell you...that I loved you."   
  
Pietro smiled shakily, his eyes closed. He reached out tentative fingers and pressed them to Lance's jaw before sliding them up into the soft chestnut strands. He opened his eyes, and stared up into the warm sienna. Abruptly, his mind recalled his earlier thoughts from days past,  
Masks, He thought as their lips drew closer, They don't see him the way I do. They see a brash angry rebel, willing to pound anyone's face in just because he wanted to. But that's not him. This is him.  
  
Their lips met, soft and gentle as the caress of a tender morning breeze, a sweet lullaby, lilting and quiet in the stillness of dawn. It was how a first kiss should be, tender and loving, yet infused with underlying passion. But this kiss...this gesture held too much caution. Just as young hearts held too much pain, too much wisdom of the world.   
  
This is us, When the kiss ended, Pietro stared with hopeful brilliance into Lance's face, eyes scouring for any sign of regret.  
  
"Okay, then."  
  
Pietro frowned, feeling a surge of hurt rise within him as the older boy pulled away, speaking nonchalantly. Before he could open his mouth and say any scathing words, however, the sound of someone clearing their throat invaded his senses. He flushed and looked away from Lance, turning to face the doctor, whom had just entered.  
  
Dr. Brandenbury was middle-aged and bearded, his face open and honest. Lance slumped down in his chair slightly, staring at him with all the attitude of a bored teenager.  
  
"So, doc...we gonna get this show on the road or what?"  
  
The doctor managed to smile tightly at the dark-haired boy before turning to Lance's pale counterpart.  
  
"Well, since your friend over here seems so anxious to get on with the examination, Mr. Maximoff, let's take a look at your stats here."  
  
Pietro nodded mutely, idly flexing his fingers as the doctor ruffled through his portfolio.  
  
"It seems that aside from your condition, you're relatively healthy with the exception of weight fluctuations..."  
  
"He has a high metabolism," Lance interrupted, eyes rolled up at the ceiling, the absolute picture of boredom. Pietro almost smirked when the doctor glanced irritably at the dark-haired boy.   
  
"I can see that," Dr. Brandenbury consented after a moment, and turned fully towards Pietro, placing all attention on the slender boy.   
  
"Well, then. Let's talk about treatment options for the cancer."  
  
  
tbc  
  
  
  



	5. Winter

Title: When You Wake~ Chapter 4: Winter  
Author: Naisumi  
Rating: PG-13  
Part: 4/4  
Pairings: Lance/Pietro, Pietro/Lance  
Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~  
Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?   
Warnings: Um...angst. Like, MAJOR angst, slash...and I think that's all. Character death(s).  
  
Notes:  
I'd like to thank Shindo for thinking this fic 'rawked' ^.~  
And I'd also like to thank Morwen for helping me find information on Pietro's condition. Oh yes, and I'd like to thank Michiko for betareading ^-^  
All information regarding non-small cell lung cancer was found by the PDQ, and all links and information was founded at www.lungcanceronline.org.   
If you have anything you'd like to clear up, you can e-mail me at chanc@uakron.edu. Many of the scenes in this fic, especially in previous chapters, have double meanings. An example would be the phrase "I'll go with you" that Pietro says in Chapter 2. I have scattered foreshadowing and other symbolic mediums throughout this fic, and if you have trouble picking them out, you can e-mail me for clarification. Thanks for all your patience.  
  
I'd also like to note that this is the first fic that I obsessively worked on. XD It was fun.  
I felt really, really bad (not to mention weepy) about it, though...  
  
Anyways, C&C please!! And enjoy!  
  
"blah." People speak  
blah. Mental speak  
-- uh...scene switch  
  
  
--  
  
The silence was haunting as it permeated the household. Soft strains of music could be heard faintly through the haze of incredulity, but other than that...  
  
"You're not joking..."  
  
Lance shook his head, gazing gravely at the small teen. "I wouldn't joke about something like this."  
  
Todd was quiet for a moment, then he shook his head--slowly at first, then violently.   
  
"That's impossible, yo! We never noticed! There weren't any..." His voice trickled off into silence. Lance closed his eyes and murmured,  
  
"We should've known. The fact is that every one of us is responsible because we didn't figure it out. It was our job to realize that there was something wrong...and we didn't."   
  
Pained sienna met bewildered pale green. Todd shook his head again, dropping his face to his hands.   
  
"No...no, no, _no_!" He moaned, shoulders quivering. Fred awkwardly offered tentative support as he scooted closer to the trembling youth.  
  
Lance sighed heavily, glancing over at Fred.  
  
"We're going to get through this," he said, despair cleverly disguised as false optimism.   
  
Fred seemed to take heart at his words, though doubt still lurked in his uncertain eyes. Lance offered a brief smile before walking with forced calmness to the staircase. He took the stairs two with each step, and reached Pietro's room in no time.  
  
Hesitantly, he lifted a hand to knock, only to have the door yanked open at the last moment. Pietro was there, looking rumpled and frantic, desperation shining in his red-rimmed eyes,  
  
"Lance! ...Lance, my hair...m-my hair, it's--"   
  
The older boy caught the cerulean-eyed boy as his knees gave out, and tenderly ushered him inside. Snowy tufts of downy hair littered the hunter green bedspread, evidence of the chemotherapy taking its toll. Pietro sniffled softly, burying his face in Lance's shoulder. The dark-haired boy surveyed the room, eyes widening at the sight of pale yellow staining the far wall and broken pieces of glittering glass scattered on the carpet.   
  
"Pietro...the medici--"  
"I don't _want_ to take the medicine anymore!" Pietro let out a heart-rending keen, clutching the side of his head with a trembling hand,  
  
"I-I can't..."  
  
Lance shook his head, panic surging briefly before he beat it back down. His throat tightened as he saw the willowy boy fling himself down upon his bed, arms thrown over his head. Carefully, he sat down beside the quivering figure, fingers gently stroking the thinning ashen hair.  
  
"Why don't you want to take the medicine anymore, Pietro? Chemotherapy's the better way...you know that."   
  
Soundless sobs wracked the emaciated frame as the miserable teen tried to overcome grief known only to him.   
  
"Pietro?"  
  
Lance pulled his friend and love into his arms, rocking him back and forth as comfortingly as he could. After a while, Pietro seemed to calm down somewhat, his tears stemmed. Lance leaned his head against Pietro's, silently urging the withdrawn boy to talk to him, to explain the outburst. After several minutes, he heard the downy-haired youth whisper,  
  
"You won't think I'm beautiful anymore..."  
  
The dark-eyed boy sighed and hugged the slender frame tightly,  
  
"I would, too. You know I love you...this doesn't make any difference." He paused, then grinned, joking, "You'll always be hot to me."   
  
Pietro chuckled weakly at that, feeling the chill of fear dissipate slightly. He felt nauseous, though, and miserable.  
  
Slowly, Pietro opened his closed eyes, wishing he hadn't. The warm stickiness of drying tears felt awful and nauseating. He felt too warm, tired, and his chest hurt. Lance wrapped an arm around his shoulders as the slight boy shivered,  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Pietro nodded faintly, then managed to summon up enough energy to mumble,  
  
"I need to go wash up."  
  
The chocolate-haired boy nodded, concern shining from the depths of his eyes, and asked quietly,  
  
"Need help?"  
  
Pietro shook his head, stumbling slightly as he stood. Lance made to get up with him, but the slender teen held up a hand.  
  
"I'm okay..." He hesitated as he saw his love wasn't convinced, and whispered in turn, "Don't worry...I'll call if I need help."  
  
Lance frowned slightly, then nodded reluctantly, settling back on the disheveled bed.   
  
--  
  
The frail teen clicked the bathroom door shut, leaning his head against it and taking several large gulps of air. Blinking rapidly up at the ceiling, he whispered haltingly,  
  
"God...I know I-I've never prayed to you before...I know that I don't...I don't ev-even believe in you that much...Hell, you haven't r-really been there for m-me...you know? But...but I gotta ask this..._please_...please, just _please_ grant me this...don't let me die...let m--"   
  
Pietro's voice broke as he bowed his head, uncontrollable sobs escaping between ragged breathing and hacking coughs. After a few moments, he continued in a softer, calmer voice, his sobs minimized though the coughs only grew worse.  
  
"I know I have lung cancer...he-hell, it's not even m-my fault...but I do. 'cause shit happens..." he glanced up at the ceiling again, not really seeing the cracked old plaster,  
  
"B-but...but there's still a chan-chance...right? Th-there's always a chance..." He bit his lower lip, trembling as a chill surged through him, and leaned against the bathroom counter for support.  
  
"Please...don't let me die. Not when I finally have a life...not when I finally, _finally_ have real friends...a person who truly loves me. I-I know I pro-probably don't deserve this, and I kn-know that...that, well, I-I've been a bastard sometimes...but please...th-they don't deserve this..."  
  
Pietro closed his eyes, falling to his knees as the strength in his legs gave out.   
  
"L-Lance...Lance doesn't deserve this. O-Or Todd...hell, even Fred doesn't deserve this. None of them..." He smiled thinly,  
  
"Maybe I-I deserve this...but please...God...if you're li-listening...please don't let me die...if n-not for my sake...for th-theirs...please?"  
  
Quietly, Pietro bowed his head, pressing his temple against the cool tile. He rocked himself to and fro, coughs relentlessly escaping his mouth. There was a startling silence, then he lunged forward, bending over the toilet and coughing up mouthfuls of blood.  
  
Trembling, he stared at the thin red liquid, the crimson pieces of tissue darkening places. Pietro closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against his tightly gripping knuckles that had a desperate grasp on the countertop, and sobbed hysterically,  
  
"Are you listening?!" he demanded, shuffling forward on his knees, his entire form quivering,  
  
"Are you listening to me, God?! Huh!?! Why the hell won't you answer me?!?!!"  
  
Vaguely, Pietro could hear Lance's frantic calls of his name, the violent pounding that vibrated the door.  
  
"WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME?!!!"  
  
His foot caught at one of the corners of the cabinet and he fell to his elbows, sobbing repeatedly before whispering miserably,  
  
"Wh-why...why won't you answer me?"  
  
The bathroom door banged open, shuddering as it hammered into the wall. Lance burst in, mahogany eyes darkened with panic. In a split second he took in the tear-stained face, the blood rippling in the toilet, the desperate sobs. In that instance he cradled the slender boy against him, whispering sweet nothings against the downy hair, wrapping comforting arms around the quivering frame.  
  
And through it all, Pietro sobbed quietly,  
  
"Why?"  
  
--  
  
"Since the cancer has already progressed to Stage IV, your only options are either radiation therapy, chemotherapy, laser therapy, or internal radiation therapy."  
  
The doctor quirked an eyebrow and turned to face Pietro,  
  
"Internal radiation therapy is out of the question because of the slightness of your frame and..." He gestured vaguely towards the portfolio, obvious dislike coloring his expression and voice, "Because of the mutation chromosome that you possess."  
  
"Cut to the chase," Lance retorted angrily into the disapproving silence, "Enough with this shit, okay? We got the documents, we got the mail--we know what we can do and what we can't."  
  
Dr. Brandenbury's brow creased slightly in censure, and he turned slightly towards the window,  
  
"Right now, because of your budget _and_ the limit on resources, radiation therapy for non-small cell lung cancer is absolutely unavailable."   
  
He eyed the silent azure-eyed boy,  
  
"It looks like the only choice we have is to continue the chemotherapy."  
  
Lance frowned darkly and quietly reached for Pietro's hand, a gesture unnoticed by the smug doctor.  
  
"The documents this hospital sent said that a dual treatment of both radiation and chemotherapy is possible," Lance murmured, voice quiet and venomous,  
  
"I'm pretty sure that you don't _run out_ of possibilities for radiation therapy, otherwise this hospital could hardly call itself just that."  
  
Dr. Brandenbury reddened and scowled deeply, the awkward silence stretching for minutes. After a moment, he snapped curtly,  
  
"Fine. Check Mr. Maximoff in at the front desk and we'll start applying the x-rays this afternoon."  
  
With that, the doctor left in a huff. The dark-haired boy stared after him, a small smirk tugging at his lips. A soft laugh called his attention to the slight youth at his side,  
  
"Since when have you known so much about medicine, _Alvers_?" Pietro asked teasingly.  
  
Lance grinned and tightened his grip on the slender boy's hand,  
  
"Well...I've been doing some research."  
"Oh, really?"  
  
Azure eyes slid shut as the downy-haired boy kissed his friend and lover with quiet passion.  
  
"Thank you..."  
  
--  
  
After Lance made a solemn phone call back to the Brotherhood's house, he returned to the hospital room that they had assigned Pietro. Two weeks had passed since he first discovered the willowy youth's ailment; two weeks since they had professed their love. One week since the chemotherapy had been coupled with high-dose x-rays. The lung cancer was getting worse. The cause? Secondhand smoking. Lance wanted to kill whoever had subjected his lover to such conditions, but they all knew that it had been the terribleness of the past, of whatever childhood he had had. Instead, all he could do was sit by and watch Pietro waste away, becoming gaunt and emaciated. The cerulean-eyed boy's appetite waned and he felt tired and dizzy often. His hair had been falling out at an alarming rate, looking almost like the feathers of some fallen angel, or a dove. The speed at which his body functioned helped it grow back quicker than most, at first, but after a week of having to regenerate at such a rate, his body was slowing. His breathing was slowing. His heart was slowing.  
  
Pietro still smiled, though. It seemed as if after the outburst in the bathroom a week before and the doctor's check-up all the despair had seeped out of him. He smiled, though, not because of hope--but because he knew that dying wouldn't be as painful if it were in his lover's arms; Lance's arms. The dark-haired boy's embrace warmed him, made breathing a little easier, dulled the pain. But lately, even a gentle word, a tender kiss from the enigmatic teen had not been able to tame the blazing fire that was burning Pietro from the inside out. It frightened Lance to no end, but the slight boy smiled quietly and took it in stride. The fight had made him stronger, and after he accepted that this would be the end, inner peace had settled about his wandering soul with all the permanence of the waxing tide of the ocean.  
  
--  
  
"We're going to take him in for a last dose of the radiation therapy tomorrow," Dr. Brandenbury said, his brow furrowing in concentration,  
  
"After that...if Mr. Maximoff hasn't recovered, then he probably won't at all."  
  
Lance shook his head, grating out harshly,  
  
"If he doesn't get better, we're going to try again."  
  
The doctor stared at him before telling him with cool calmness perfected through practice,  
  
"There are other patients, Mr. Alvers, with better chances to survive than he does. We can't spend all our efforts solely on him--it doesn't make sense. _He_ might not live, but that doesn't mean we can't use our resources to help others."  
  
Lance closed his eyes and looked away, silently despairing.   
  
--  
  
That night, the moon was hidden by the clouds, as if they were mourning a death; as if they acted as a shroud to the grieving moonlight. Huddled in the stiff hospital bed were two figures, one calmly holding the other.  
  
Pietro smiled tenderly, his cerulean eyes brighter and clearer than they ever had been since the diagnosis.  
  
"It's going to be okay, Lance. The pain's gone now."  
  
The dark-haired boy cradled him closer, grasping one hand and intertwining their fingers. A thin arm wrapped itself around him, slender fingers playing at his hair. He shook his head jerkily, whispering,  
  
"I'm not going to let them take you..."  
  
In the still darkness, he heard the soft breathing of the slight boy,  
  
"Lance...I'm not going to get better."  
  
In response, mahogany eyes squeezed shut tightly, attempting to withhold the first tears in so long.  
  
"Yes, you will."  
  
Lance gripped the slender hand tighter, wanting to cry, to scream, to sob as he felt the delicate bones against his clammy palm. "You're not going to die," he told the silver-haired boy, his voice too calm, too detached. His mind was numb yet chaotic in the extreme. Shaking his head, he pulled the thin frame closer to him, feeling the point of Pietro's chin dig into his shoulder, feeling the gentle lips against the curve of his neck.   
  
"You're going to wake up in the morning, and you're going to be fine. And when you do wake up...I'll be there."   
  
He quietly held him closer, eyes open and unseeing, pinned on some sight in the distance that only he could see.  
  
"I'll always be there when you wake."  
  
--  
  
In the morning, the nurse found a slight boy curled up in the arms of an older one, crystalline tears tracking down the tanned face. She reached them, and asked what was wrong, only to find the slender pale youth's skin cool and unresponsive; the slim chest unmoving in the wake of what would be breaths of life.   
  
The dark-haired boy wept, burying his face in the side of the other's neck, and whispered pleads into his love's ear; beseeching him to open his eyes, to wake up, to not leave him alone.  
  
Five days after the funeral, an 18-year-old senior, fresh out of high school, was found slumped against the grave of another boy with blood pooling beneath him, a slender letter opener beside him.   
  
It was reported in the newspaper that the grave was that of the recently deceased Pietro Maximoff, and the boy who had committed suicide was none other than Lance Alvers.   
  
Before he died, though, the newspaper copied the words on the epitaph that the dark-haired boy had lovingly carved, one simple phrase that had been said before in the tender moonlight, and still spoke volumes of the affection and love between two destined souls;  
  
'I'll always be there when you wake'  
  
  
  
~fin~  
  
  



End file.
